The Sweetness of Winter
by Air Doodles
Summary: The sweetness of summer fades, but the first snow is like the first love, and nothing burns like the cold / A collection of one-shots and drabbles dedicated to the Sansa/Podrick ship.
1. Nasty Little Shits

**Nasty Little Shits**

(several years after the end of events in TV show)

They are all terrible whisperers, Podrick thinks to himself.

He stands by his horse, a dappled gray mare, on the edge of the tournament grounds where the other knights are being dressed by their squires in adjacent tents. Pod has no squire himself, but he's used to preparing for such events without anyone else's help. He'd been a squire long enough to know how way around armor. When he looks into the reflective surface of a bronze shield by his side, Pod tries to convince himself that he truly is a proper knight now.

 _Ser Podrick Payne_ , he thinks and then sighs.

A snicker from the tents takes him out of focus for the hundredth time since he arrived on the scene. He tries not to be too obvious when he turns his head slightly in the direction of the laugh. It is not the best view, but he needn't turn all the way to know what he'll see.

Because of his unusual circumstances, Podrick was knighted much later than usual. As a result, he is at least three or fours years older than all the other knights at this tournament. He is hardly an old man, not by a long-shot, but the way the younger knights snigger make him feel like an outsider nonetheless.

He tries to shut them out and focus on the people sitting in the stands instead. There are lords, ladies, members of the court, other knights sitting on cushions while the peasants stand on the other side of the tournament green. He knows they aren't looking at him. Why should they? Yet he can't suppress the feeling, each time a stranger's eyes wander in his direction, that they're thinking what the younger knights are whispering:

There goes Ser Podrick Payne, the Penniless. Ser Podrick Payne, the Squire-Knight, the slow one, the obscure one, the one who can't even ride a horse properly, even at his age. Ser Podrick Payne, the Mediocre, the one in the dented, second-hand armor that doesn't fit properly.

"Ser Podrick Payne, the Great," he hears one of the young boys whisper as the group erupts in laughter.

He finally succumbs to temptation, and he turns to look at the other knights. They all stand tall and stand together, in their pristine, expensive armor, polishing swords of the most intricate craftsmanship. They wear scarves and sleeves and pouches at their belt, tokens of favor from noble ladies and sweethearts.

Young, noble, proud, rich, gallant. Things that Podrick cannot claim himself to be.

Suddenly he wonders why he is even here, at this tournament in King's Landing. Surely he, Ser Podrick the Great Joke, doesn't belong here, in a place where the proud and wealthy win glory and honor. He was barely able to even afford the entrance fee to the tournament. Were it not for some generous donations from his family, he'd be back in the Westerlands. He had purchased his armor secondhand from a retired knight and it isn't his size. There is no lady in King's Landing that would accept his offer of championship.

When Podrick turns and walks away from the tents and toward the smiths, he tells himself it is to see about his sword, but he also just wants to get away from the other knights. He keeps his eyes to the ground and marches on without watching his path. In his hurry to get away, Podrick nearly runs into a lady dressed in green.

He is in the middle of spitting out an apology when he finally manages to lift his eyes from his feet and finds himself standing in front of the Princess of the North. Sansa graciously accepts his apology and doesn't move to let him pass. Podrick, still stunned, stands there and stares blankly, stupidly.

It has been several months since Podrick last saw Lady Sansa, and the last time had been very brief and they hardly exchanged more than ten words between the two of them. She is striking in her emerald robes, and her fiery hair provides stunning contrast to her snow-white complexion and sky-blue eyes. He admits that he had always thought her pretty, but this is the first time the word "beautiful" pops into his head at the sight of her. So far into his thoughts he is that he almost doesn't register her voice when she speaks to him.

"I've been looking for you," Sansa says. The knight raises his brows.

"H-Have you, m'lady?" Podrick says.

"Of course!" Sansa says, momentarily turning and telling her handmaiden to leave her with the knight for a minute. She turns back to him with a cheerful look.

"A fortnight ago, when I heard you'd entered the tournament, I was so pleased," she says. "It's lucky we happened to be in King's Landing at the same time. After the last time, I was worried we wouldn't meet again. This is nice."

"Thank you, m'lady," Podrick says, unsure whether or not to bow.

"Sansa, please," she says, correcting him. "You don't have to be so formal, Podrick. Or is it 'Ser' Podrick, now?"

Pod laughs, a little nervously. Sansa is no stranger, but he still finds it challenging to surmount the social gap between them.

"Sansa… yes," he says and immediately wishes he'd more to say to her. There is a short pause in their conversation, but the silence is filled by the sound of sniggering. When Sansa looks a little past Podrick, she sees the younger knights trading jokes and slapping at their thighs while another round of laughter rolls over them. When one of the knights casts a glance at Podrick, the gesture does not escape Lady Stark's eye. She scowls.

The last thing Podrick wants is for his lady to pity him. He clears his throat to get her attention again.

"Um… you said you were looking for me, m'lady? I mean, Sansa," he says. Sansa looks to him again, her blue eyes newly alert.

"Oh, right," she says, fidgeting a bit. "I… notice you're not wearing any lady's favor at your belt."

Podrick is quiet for a bit. He hopes he isn't blushing.

"Oh. Yes. No… I mean, no, I'm not."

Sansa seems to rock back and forth on her heels.

"Hadn't you any plans to? You had a fortnight to prepare," she says.

"No?" Podrick gently hopes that Sansa will drop the subject. He's painfully aware that he is nobody's favorite knight in this tournament. Sansa chews on her bottom lip for a second and then casts her own eyes downward.

"Well, then, I hope this isn't too forward of me. I know it's not customary," she says, her fingers are curled into a fist in front of her. When she opens them, she produces from her hand a glossy silk scarf, as white as snow and as cool to the touch. At the end of the thin garment, Sansa has embroidered a ferocious, leaping direwolf.

"Would you wear my favor on your belt for me?" she asks.

"What?"

When Pod looks at her face, she looks worried.

"No one asked me and—"

Sansa doesn't finish her sentence, but Podrick already doesn't believe that not a single knight offered to enter the tournament and fight for her honor. Surely she received offers from every knight to be her champion.

"You want me to… wear your favor?" Podrick is stunned at her request.

Firstly, because Sansa has been incredibly forward in asking him to wear her token; social custom dictates that the knight ought to be the one doing the asking and a lady should wait for her champion to offer his service. And then, secondly, because Sansa is no ordinary lady of the court. She is royalty, a princess. And a Stark, as well. The other knights carry the tokens of court women and obscure noble ladies, but none bear the favors of princesses. And Sansa offers him her own handmade token.

"If it's not too much trouble. You don't have to," Sansa says, slowly retracting the white scarf.

Pod, afraid that she might think him unwilling (nothing could be further from the truth), stretches both hands out to receive the scarf from the Northern Princess. Sansa smiles as she lets the glossy token fall into his hands. Pod holds it as gently as if it were a babe in his hands. When he looks up at the lady before him, the smile on her face is as warm as eternal summer and so beautiful, it breaks his heart. His words cluster and stick in his throat as he stumbles over a "thank you"

"You have no idea… This is… You can't know how much this… how much this means to me, m'la—Sansa… I'll… I promise to defend you honor, and—,"

"Just promise me you won't let them see you upset," she says, and Pod goes quiet.

Sansa looks over at the sniggering knights at the far side of the sword arena. They are a lot of snobbish, pimple-faced teenagers in squeaky-clean, unused armor, green and naive. Sansa leans in and whispers in Podrick's ear.

"They're _nasty_ little shits, Pod," she says. "And nasty little shits aren't worth being upset over. You're a better man than they'll ever be."

With a good luck wish and a smile, Sansa turns and heads back to her place in the stalls while Podrick stands there, still cradling the princess' token of favor. He watches her back as she walks away, and though her figure fades, her red hair blazes as brightly from the distance. Podrick tries to suppress the smile that threatens to break across his face. He loops the scarf under and over his belt lets the direwolf show, proud and fierce, on the right side of his hip.

When he turns and walks back out to greet the other knights of the tournament, the atmosphere is different. No longer are the younger knights passing jokes about Ser Podrick Payne amongst themselves; rather, their whispers are about the knight with battle-dented armor, whose steady gaze betrays no fear.

He bears the favor of Northern royalty, they say. See how he fights for the honor of a princess, and his right side is watched by a wolf. He will fight for Sansa Stark's honor all the days of his life.


	2. Swords and Needles

**Swords and Needles**

(Set in TV universe, sometime between Brienne's pledge to Sansa and their arrival at Castle Black. Not much romance, just bonding time.)

"How much farther until we reach The Wall?"

Podrick is in the middle of striking at a flintstone when Sansa asks the question. He notices that her voice is deeper than he remembers. It feels like lifetimes since she married his former lord, Tyrion, and the Sansa he remembers was a little girl. But the Sansa who sits huddled on a petrified tree stump cloaked in heavy furs cannot be called a girl anymore; she's seen too much and has hurt too often. _We both have_ , he thinks to himself.

"Well… depending on how fast we ride and if weather conditions permit," Podrick responds, striking the two stones against each other. "I'd say a little over a week. Maybe a week and a half."

Sparks drizzle down from the stones and ignite the branches and pine needles he's gathered into the fire pit. The warmth is not enough to banish the stubborn cold that has sunk into their clothes and bones, but Pod still beckons the Stark girl closer to the fire's light. Brienne has left their campsite momentarily to collect more wood to feed the flames and to catch game for their supper tonight. She's entrusted Sansa's care to Podrick for the time being.

Sansa lifts her hands up to catch some of the heat on her palms while Pod gets up to check on the horses. She watches as the squire opens up a sack of grain and frowns at their dwindling supply. The horses can't last the journey on so little food. At least, with all the snow, there's no shortage of water. Sansa gets closer to the fire as Pod shovels snow into a pan, to be heated over the fire later.

She knows that Lady Brienne and her squire are doing their best, but Sansa cannot help but worry. Old Nan had always called her and her siblings sweet summer children, and although she was a Northman by birthright, winter was a stranger to her.

Her thoughts are interrupted by a low growl, so low that Sansa almost doesn't detect it over the crackling of the flames. But when she turns her head slowly to look behind her, her face goes as white as the forest surrounding them.

"P… Pod… Podrick?" she whispers, her voice trembling.

"Yes, m'lady?" Pod turns to face Sansa, but she, in turn, is facing away from him. When he follows her gaze, his eyes land on the dark figure of a snarling hound approaching from the shadows. He drops the snow pan to the ground and he feels the cold run down his spine.

"Sansa," Pod whispers, not daring to tear his eyes from the dog's. "Don't move. No sudden movements."

His eyes carefully search their campsite. Where did he lay his sword down?

Sansa is starting to scoot herself backwards, and her heavy breaths came out as tufts of hot air. The dog barks, deep and guttural. It bares its teeth, and Sansa forces herself to choke back a cry. A hound must mean that Bolton men can't be far behind. _I'm not going back to him, never_ , Sansa prays. Podrick spots his sword, still sheathed and lying in the snow between Sansa and the snarling animal.

Everything happens in a blur of white, black, and red. The hound sprints toward them, teeth bared and growling. Sansa screams and scuttles away. Podrick leaps between the dog and the Stark girl. He grabs the sword just as the dog bites down hard on his forearm, and he lets out a pained cry. With its teeth sunk into his flesh, the dog pulls at him. He unsheathes his sword and plunges it up and into the dog's hulking mass. Blood stains the snow, a crimson mix of Podrick's and the dog's. When he pulls the sword out and stabs the animal again, it lets go of his arm. It whines and yelps in pain for a few seconds before Pod runs the steel through its body again and shuts it up for good.

Podrick lays back against the snow, his labored breathing turning into vapor in the icy air. Sansa Stark is by his side at the same time that the pain in his arm begins to register. He looks at the dead dog, his sword still sticking out of its body, and then he looks at his left forearm. He's almost afraid to see what the damage is.

"Are you alright?" Sansa asks. Her eyes look as if they'll spill over with tears soon. Podrick sits up and crawls back to lean against the tree stump she was sitting on earlier. The hound's teeth has cut through his shirtsleeve and blood was flowing down his arm. When he brings it up to inspect the wound, it is as bad as he'd expected. The dog's teeth has punctured his flesh and then tore at the skin. His face goes white just from the sight of it.

"Ah, gods," he curses, staring at it. But Sansa is already moving. She picks up the snow pan Pod was handling earlier and then heats the snow over the fire, melts it down to lukewarm water. She grabs a cloth from a bag and then rushes back to apply pressure onto his wound. Podrick lets out a string of curses and takes the cloth from her. He presses it to his arm more gently. Sansa returns with the pan of water.

Carefully, she begins to peel back his sleeve and the full sight of the bite makes her stomach lurch a little bit.

"W-We have to clean the wound," Sansa says. When his sleeve doesn't cooperate with her plans, she grabs it with both fists and tears it open. Pod barely has time to question her when she promises to fix it for him later. Podrick holds still while she pours the water over it. Slowly, the red starts to wash away.

"What in Seven Hells has happened here?"

Pod and Sansa both looks up to see Brienne, her arms full of firewood. Podrick begins to explain everything as Brienne dumps her load down by the fire and then draws Pod's sword out of the dead dog's body. The lady knight fusses over Sansa, then, asking her if she is alright. Then, Brienne catches a glance at her squire's bloodied forearm. The gash is long and deep and looks very painful.

"We have to close this up, Podrick," Brienne said. "As soon as the bleeding goes down, we need to stitch it up."

* * *

He's seen her do needlework before.

When they were both staying in King's Landing, he'd often walked in to check on her as per Tyrion's request, and he would sometimes stumble in as she was working on a dress or a handkerchief. Sometimes, when he walked in through the doors of her chambers, just before he delivered his message, he would catch a short glimpse at her face. Her brows would be tense, her blue eyes burned with focus as she lost herself in the repetitive movements involved in needlework. One stitch at a time, one thread at a time, slowly yet surely turning into something beautiful.

And then she would look up and stop.

Now, he has the privilege of looking at her face head-on while she runs her needle through his wound.

Podrick wonders why needlework fits her so well. It can't just be because she is a lady. There is something about it. Something about the back and forth movement, the gentle tug on the thread, the coming together of a needlepoint masterpiece that seems as though Sansa is a mystical being casting a spell whenever there is a needle in her hand. He watches with taut fascination as her expert fingers string the thread through the eye of a curved needle. He holds his breath when she starts to push the point into his flesh, expecting another explosion of hurt. But to his surprise, the experience is rather painless.

Every stitch brings the wound closer to healing. Every push and tug of the needle and thread brings Pod closer to closing the bloody chasm and making his skin whole again. She has a gift for it, he thinks. Just as Lady Brienne has a gift for the sword, Lady Sansa has a gift for a different sort of point. While Brienne excels at cutting and puncturing, Sansa mends and makes.

She cuts the thread when his stitches are done. Podrick forgets to tear his gaze away when she catches his eye, and he blushes as he mutters something that sounds like "thank you." Sansa only nods and instructs him to keep the stitches as clean as he can. When she stands, she starts to put the needle and thread back into the stitching kit Brienne had brought. Pod is busy inspecting his stitches and he doesn't seem to notice when Sansa looks down at her own handiwork and sighs with relief.


	3. Snow Child

**Snow Child**

(Set in an alternate TV universe in which Sansa stays at Winterfell while Jon, the new King in the North, wages war with Lannisters. Takes place after the events of the series, whatever those events may be. As I said, slightly AU.

This is a drabble-length fic, but there will be an extended version of this in 1k-word one shot form later.)

/

Sansa would never have guessed that Pod prayed to the Old Gods.

As a southron and a westerman, she thought him more likely to be discovered in the sept than in the Godswood. But there he is, crouching down on one knee before the weirwood's raised roots with his head lowered in reverence. His sword lies in the snow by his side, and there is no wind to stir the leaves and disturb the prayerful silence. The Godswood at Winterfell has always been quieter than the rest of the grounds, but this is the first time that the quiet sounds full.

Sansa had never liked quiet before. At least not before all of _this_.

For a moment, Sansa remembers the way her father looked, kneeling before the exact same weirwood. It feels like ages ago, but with Pod kneeling there by the roots, the Godswood doesn't feel so empty without Eddard Stark. She begins to realize, suddenly, how young Podrick actually is. He may be too old to be squiring for anybody now, but he's not much older than Sansa herself. Which is to say that they are both too young to have lived through so much tragedy. They were both too inexperienced—when everything went wrong—to learn that winter follows summer follows winter. That war follows peace follows war, and through it all, life will go on.

When she was a girl, she had been in such a hurry to grow up. It was supposed to be simple: she would wear pretty dresses and go to feasts and balls in the capital. She would fall in love with a handsome prince, marry him, have children, and become his queen. It was supposed to be beautiful, like the songs and stories she'd heard and fallen asleep to as a child. How quickly summer fades, and childhood with it. Winter has a way of aging things. And although the cold will pass and summer will return, she can never go back to her old, blissful self. She can never return to that little girl who only knows princesses and knights in shining armor and bedtime stories. The scars that mar her innocence will last forever.

And not just they, either. Sansa thinks of her brother, Jon. He may be a Stark now, but she wonders if the old Jon Snow ever expected to be thrown into the middle of a war. And Bran, who was only ten when he lost the use of his legs and was forced to grow up even quicker than she.

She wonders if Pod feels it, the same profound feeling of loss that she feels for their former selves, the children they were. Does he mourn for the boy Podrick the same way she mourns for the girl Sansa? Is that why he prays in the Godswood instead of the sept, a last, desperate attempt to find the lost boy amongst the lost gods?

When Sansa steps out from behind a tree, it is when Podrick has finally stood up and ended his prayer. These sad, retrospect thoughts still flow through her mind when she approaches Podrick and the snow begins to fall. When she's close enough to him, he turns and meets her gaze with wide eyes.

"Sansa," he says in greeting. But the Stark girl is looking down at the impression his knees have left in the snow. She begins to think that he hadn't been praying at all. There, at the foot of the weirwood tree, are two snow balls stacked one on the other, a structure no taller than Lady had been as a pup. Podrick has built a tiny snowman.

 _No_ , says a voice inside her head. Too small to be a snowman. A _snow child_.


End file.
